1. Hallie #3
When Ryan's footsteps finally fade and the sound of the back door swinging shut echoes through the library, Caius reaches down and picks up The Duke's Forbidden Touch again from where it landed spine-up on the carpet.
He holds it carefully, turning it over in his oil-stained hands to examine the bent pages with exaggerated concern, his fingers tracing the creased corner with surprising gentleness.
The cover's practically folded in half now, the shirtless duke's face warped into something vaguely Picasso-esque.
"This one's definitely gonna need some serious TLC," he says, his voice dropping into that low register that always does dangerous things to my pulse.
"I'll fix it," I manage to say, reaching for the book, but he holds it just out of reach. My fingertips barely brush his knuckles.
"You gonna fix yourself too?" The question lands between us like a stone dropped in still water.
The air shifts. Everything shifts.
I look up sharply, my hand suspended in space but Caius isn't smiling anymore.
The easy humor that usually lives in the corners of his mouth has vanished entirely.
He's watching me with an intensity that makes my breath hitch in my throat, makes my lungs forget their priMaura function.
His dark eyes are serious, searching, like he can see straight through all my careful deflections to the mess underneath, the hurt, the humiliation, the bone-deep exhaustion of trying to be enough for someone who never really wanted me in the first place.
"I'm fine," I say again, but the words come out thin and unconvincing, weak even to my own ears. They sound like the lie they are.
His jaw tightens. "Liar."
The word hangs between us. Outside, I can hear the normal sounds of the library. The quiet murmur of patrons at the front desk, the hum of the ancient heating system, the tick of the clock above the checkout counter. Everything normal and safe and predictable.
Caius isn't normal or safe. He never has been. Not when we were kids and he taught me how to hotwire Ryan's dirt bike. Not in high school when he'd show up at my window at 2 AM just to talk.
He takes a step closer, his work boots quiet on the industrial carpet.
Then another. The space shrinks with each measured movement, and suddenly the Biography section, this entire corner of reference materials and forgotten histories, feels very small.
Too small. The shelves seem to lean in around us, creating a pocket of air that belongs only to him and me, thick with tension and the faint scent of motor oil and something clean, like soap and worn cotton.
"You look like you're about to commit a felony," he says quietly, his voice pitched low enough that it doesn't carry past our little bubble. "Need a getaway driver?"
My heart does something acrobatic and complicated that would score a perfect ten from even the harshest Olympic judges. It somersaults and stutters and then kicks into a rhythm that has nothing to do with cardiovascular health and everything to do with the way he's looking at me right now.
"What?" The word comes out breathless, confused, caught somewhere between a laugh and genuine bewilderment.
"I'm serious." His eyes don't leave mine. "You want to skip town for the weekend? I've got a truck, half a tank of gas, and zero plans. We could be in the next state before anyone notices."
I laugh, but it comes out shaky and uncertain, more like a breath that got caught halfway and tangled itself into something resembling amusement.
My fingers tighten around the spine of the book I'm still clutching, some biography about forgotten explorers or aviators or people who made impossibly brave choices.
"That's crazy," I manage, but even as I say it, I can hear how weak the protest sounds.
How unconvincing. Like I'm trying to convince myself more than him.
"Yeah." The corner of his mouth lifts with that crooked, knowing grin that suggests he can see right through every careful defense I've ever constructed.
His eyes are still locked on mine, dark and intent, and I can't look away even though every sensible part of my brain is screaming at me to break this moment, to step back, to laugh it off properly this time. "But you're thinking about it."
I am. God help me, I am. The realization hits me with all the subtlety of a freight train barreling through a carefully organized card catalog system.
I'm actually standing here, in the Biography section of the library where I work, where I've built my safe, predictable life, genuinely considering running away for the weekend with Caius O'Connor.
With my brother's best friend. With the boy who's been hovering at the edges of my life for years, fixing things I didn't know were broken.
The breakroom door swings open down the hall. Ryan's voice echoes: "Caius! Need your muscles, man!"
Caius doesn't move. We're standing close enough that I can see the exact moment his pupils dilate, the way his gaze drops to my mouth before snapping back up.
"Think about it," he says, his voice low. "The offer stands."
Then he's gone, footsteps echoing down the hallway, leaving me alone with a pile of romance novels and the uncomfortable realization that my heart is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with Kyle or wedding seating charts.
I pick up my phone. Kyle's Instagram post is still there, taunting me.
When in Rome.
I close the app and stare at my reflection in the black screen.
What the hell am I doing?